Escapes Can Be Murder

by Connie Shelton

  “I didn’t know what to order for you,” he said. He had a sweaty mug of Michelob in front of him.

  “One of those is fine,” I said. I don’t actually love beer so it’s a safe drink to nurse along for however many hours I sat there. “Thanks for agreeing to meet me.”

  He shrugged. “I was shocked to hear from Chrissy. I had no idea Dad was going downhill so fast. Back at my place, he was popping a lot of pain killers but the way he broke the news about the cancer made me think he had a couple years still. I didn’t think a whole lot about the pills. I guess the night in jail really tore him up—they’ve got him hooked to a morphine pump now. That means it’s getting close, I guess.”

  We went silent while the waitress set my beer down in front of me. I handed her some cash and told her to keep the change.

  “I’m glad you could come. It means a lot to him. No problems with ticketing or flying? Sorry, probably none of my business but I assume you don’t want to use your own name.”

  “No. Yeah, I’ve got a Maine driver’s license under another name. As much as I live off the grid, there are still times … well, there are raised eyebrows if a person can’t show at least one type of identification. It’s weird because the cabin where I live—well, it had been abandoned with all the furniture and everything. In a drawer were important papers, including birth certificates for, I guess, the couple who once lived there. I borrowed his. Had to add five years to my age, but it worked for my purposes.”

  “Wow. You know, I’ve never given it much thought. You know, what it would take to disappear.”

  “It’s not as easy as you would think in this day and time. ID is just one thing, but credit cards are traceable, fingerprints, DNA. I know I’m cautious beyond belief.” He held up the beer mug. “Prints can be taken from a can or bottle a whole lot easier than the handle of one of these. I wear gloves in the rental car and hotel room. I know it’s not foolproof but—”

  He paused and swallowed hard. I could tell the routine must be exhausting. I couldn’t imagine keeping it up for so many years.

  “I’ve missed New Mexico. The winters in Maine are … well, you can imagine. And the bugs and things out in the woods. I was raised in a small town, but this is beyond.”

  “How do you live? I mean, what kind of food …”

  “Fishing in the lake, growing a few simple vegetables. Over the winter I stay in and I’ve actually developed a little skill with a paintbrush and canvas. At least that’s what the lady in Grandy says, the one who owns the bookstore. She sells a few of my pieces during the summer tourist season, and it’s enough to keep me in books and staple food supplies.”

  “Must get lonely out there.”

  He stared at his mug for a moment. “You know, I’m not sure what kind of life I’d want now. Mostly, I missed Dad. We were close, always. He helped me get away, you know.”

  “I’d heard.”

  “Well. This isn’t what you came to talk about.”

  “I’d hoped you might have some information that might help your case. Fergus blames Quinto, your lawyer, and the judge, seemingly in equal proportions. But I’ve had a devil of a time coming up with anything concrete, anything that would help us reopen the case or get the verdict thrown out.”

  His eyes had gone to the TV screen across the room where, even with the sound muted, I could tell the news story was about Judge Blackman’s funeral. I’d forgotten it was today.

  “Do you think he was involved in either the jury tampering or rigging the case against you?” I asked with a nod toward the screen.

  Rory’s jaw tensed, a muscle twitching beside his ear.

  “Most of what I’ve learned about the judge—some of it by firsthand experience—is what a womanizer he was. I found someone who knew he had an affair with your attorney, Helen Bannerly. Supposedly, it was old news way before your case came along, but I’m not so sure.”

  “Don’t be sure of anything concerning old man Blackman. He was a predator of the worst kind, and not just with women.”

  Chapter 35

  I think my jaw dropped. Rory continued to aim a dark stare toward the screen until the Blackman funeral news coverage was finished. Had he been one of Blackman’s victims? If the judge went after males and females alike, it certainly threw a new twist into the picture.

  When Rory turned his attention back to me and I asked, he simply said, “Look around. You’ll find others. I learned that when I got into the Damian Baca case.”

  Mention of the original case brought something else to mind. “There was a man with a scar on his lip. I saw him in a couple of the photos right after the trial. Who is he?”

  Something shifted very subtly. He shrugged and drained the last of his beer. “Just some guy. He knew Damian—maybe a cousin or something. You know those families—they have a million cousins.”

  Before I could figure out whether that was a racial slur or what, Rory had slid to the end of the booth. “Look, I gotta go. Been a long day.”

  With that, he stood and walked away.

  My phone pinged with a text from Drake. I answered: Looks like we’re done. I’m heading home.

  I abandoned the half of my beer that sat in the glass. Told you, I’m a cheap date. The conversation ran through my mind during the drive home. I had hoped Rory would jump on my news about Blackman’s affair with Helen Bannerly, that the old legal-eagle in him would light up and say it would be enough to present as evidence to overturn his conviction. And maybe, just maybe, he would be the tiniest bit grateful for the work I’d put into trying to save his ass.

  So, okay, that wasn’t happening—at least not yet. But Fergus wanted answers and it was his money covering our fee, so whether Rory cared or not, I would do my best for the old man.

  I fell asleep with the conversations running through my mind—everything Rory had said since he arrived in town—and the scenes replayed in my dreams all night as well. I jolted awake at 4:57 a.m., realizing I’d seen the man with the scar recently.

  He was the dark-suited man emerging from Quinto’s motorhome at the rally. I’d been so focused on the suits—then on Fergus—I hadn’t processed that bit of detail. If he was related to Damian Baca, as Rory had told me, what was he doing as part of Quinto’s entourage now at election time? I still didn’t know the man’s name, but I did know Baca’s and I knew where he worked.

  A quick call to the casino and I learned Damian would report for work at five p.m. Visits to the two elders in my life took up much of the day (Elsa raring to get home, Fergus visibly fading and hooked to IV lines now). I didn’t see Rory at the nursing home and Fergus was unclear as to his son’s whereabouts. He seemed unclear about a lot of things now, and I wondered what was in those IVs.

  At four o’clock I headed across town. Traffic could be a bear, and I wanted to allow plenty of time to be waiting when Damian showed up for work. I hoped he was the type to arrive early and we’d get the chance to talk; if he was one who rushed into the building four seconds before his shift started, I might have to sprint alongside from the car to the building just to insert a question or two.

  At 4:40 I arrived at the casino property and cruised around until I found the crowded employee parking lot. Strategically, I wanted to be near the walkway where everyone had to enter the building. It would be ideal to park facing the lot so I could watch cars come and go, and could get a long look at Damian before he noticed me. It didn’t quite work out that way. The lot was jammed, and the only suitable spot was on the western edge. I backed into the slot and scanned the activity.

  Hotel maids were outbound, finished for the day. Guys with grass stains on their pant legs had to be landscape maintenance—they, too, were leaving. As cars pulled away, others arrived, most likely the evening casino workers. They were dressed, made up, and coiffed to face the public and be charming because their tips depended on it.

  At five minutes before the hour I spotted him walking briskly toward the walkway. I hadn’t noticed which car he got ou
t of—darn it—but there was no doubt it was Damian. I jumped out of my Jeep and race-walked toward him.

  “Damian!” I called out when I got within shouting distance.

  He paused, puzzled, and it was enough time for me to catch up.

  “Damian, hi, I’m Charlie Parker.”

  “My bills are all caught up and I don’t owe any child support,” he said. He was studying my face. “You were here before—I’d say a week or so ago.”

  “Wow, great memory.”

  “It’s my job to know who’s doing what at my casino floor. You played a slot for a long time, never won much, kept eyeing the crowd at the craps table. Now you’re catching up to me out here—what do you want?”

  “Sounds like I need to offer you a job. Your observation skills are way better than mine.” I handed him my card.

  He actually looked at it. “Private investigator, huh. May I ask what this is about?”

  “Do you remember Rory McNab?”

  “Of course. He did a damn fine job of getting me out of a jam.” Damian pocketed my card and rubbed at a spot just above his nose. “He also knocked some sense into me.”

  “What do you mean, ‘knocked some sense’?”

  “Took me aside after the not-guilty verdict and pushed me up against the wall in one of the conference rooms. Told me he knew for a fact I was guilty and that if I didn’t change my ways real soon, I’d be right back in court and eventually I’d be in prison. He told me what it would be like for a guy like me. I might think I was tough stuff, but thrown in there, I’d find out what tough really was.”

  “You must have listened.” I tilted my head toward the upscale casino building.

  “Not at first. I puffed myself up and basically told him to get screwed. I could run my own life. But later … well, his words came back to me. I’m grateful to him for what he said that day. Most lawyers would have collected their money and blown me off. Not Rory McNab.”

  “Did the two of you stay in touch?”

  “After he went on trial, himself, well …” He wasn’t telling me everything, but the implication was clear. Suddenly, he probably hadn’t been so sure about Rory’s lecture on honesty. He’d started walking toward the building again and I trailed along.

  “One more question. There was a guy in the photos after the trial, a man with a scar on his upper lip. Someone said he was a cousin of yours?”

  “Lots of guys have scars. Could be anybody.” Damian picked up the pace. “I’m gonna be late. Sorry.”

  Damian Baca had a great memory for faces. Why wouldn’t he be able to recall the man on the courthouse steps on what was a pivotal day in his life? He might have turned his life around, and he might be polite and convincing. But he was lying about something, and I felt sure the lie involved the man with the scar. I could understand a guy covering up for a relative. The question was, why? I had no evidence the unnamed man had done anything wrong. So, what would Damian be covering up?

  Chapter 36

  Rush hour traffic crept along, which gave me plenty of time to think about the case on the way home. I had a feeling I was getting sidetracked, mired in little details, when I should be looking back at the major players, the people who had been involved from the beginning. Besides Rory, there were Judge Blackman, Herman Quinto, and Helen Bannerly.

  I knew about Blackman and Bannerly’s affair. I suspected Quinto had been aware of it at the time. From something Helen’s friend Cathy had told me, I wouldn’t rule out the possibility of blackmail. But if that was the case, who was the blackmailer and who the blackmailee? And what about Damian Baca—he’d been a minor player at the time, but he could have known something and been willing to cash in on it, or willing to be someone else’s errand boy.

  It was like dumping a jigsaw puzzle on the table and trying to assemble it without benefit of knowing what the finished picture was supposed to look like. Any of them could have been damaged by certain information: Helen Bannerly’s marriage was at stake; the judge’s marriage, not to mention his position on the bench, especially if it came out that he had an equal fondness for young males as for young females; and Herman Quinto’s big political aspirations would have either been dashed, or enhanced, but was he willing to take that chance?

  “You’re very quiet this evening,” Drake said.

  He had made chicken parmesan and was tossing a salad when I walked in. I spread butter and garlic on bread and toasted it—my great contribution to the meal—and we ate at the kitchen table.

  “Sorry, I guess I’m living inside my head at the moment.”

  “The case?”

  “Mostly. And Fergus. It’s sad and scary to see how fast he’s fading. It’s almost as if his big wish to see Rory has been granted so now he can just relax and die.”

  He gave me a sympathetic look as he squeezed my hand. “If I can do anything to help …”

  “Yeah, I know. Thanks. You’re the best.”

  “I know.” His grin lightened the moment. I tossed a wadded paper napkin at him and it landed in the sticky marinara sauce on his plate.

  We spent the evening in front of the TV, Drake immersed in a football game, Freckles stretched out on the couch between us, while I tried to transfer my runaway thoughts to paper. I knew I’d never sleep if my brain stayed in overdrive as it had been for the past few hours. It’s amazing how many hours of good sleep I’ve recovered after picking up a notepad. All the names, all the connections that I knew of—I penned everything, although in no particular order. It was still an unassembled puzzle but I was beginning to see connections.

  Somewhere around nine, Ron called.

  “You do realize that we need some arrangement in place for Elsa when they send her home.” He loves to start a conversation with a veiled demand, and for some reason these always come at the moment I think I’m calm enough to sleep.

  “I’ve been thinking about it, but there hasn’t exactly been a spare moment. Can we get on it tomorrow at the office?”

  “I have a deposition.”

  “Okay then, I’ll get on it tomorrow at the office.” It was enough to shut him up, and I added more notes to my paper.

  I was beginning to understand the whole ‘sandwich generation’ thing. At least I didn’t have children, other than Freckles, to fret over. Ron did. Career and husband, for me, had to be juggled with my obligations next door, and I told myself I could manage to put career on hold for a while if need be. Ron didn’t have that luxury. These benevolent thoughts kept me from wanting to strangle him.

  I spent an edgy night. At one point, Drake groaned when I rolled over and pinned his arm under me. He had a job later this morning so I opted for a blanket on the couch so he could get some rest. By five a.m. I gave up the pretense of sleep, brewed some coffee, and sat down with Elsa’s insurance policy and the internet.

  The name of the issuing company didn’t sound familiar to me because it had been acquired by another before I was old enough to care about the word insurance. A merger and a takeover had happened in the intervening years, and it was awhile before I came upon a site for the present-day mega entity known as Omix Life and Health.

  The website was long on glowing promises of a secure future and photos of gray-haired people riding bikes, surfing, and standing on mountaintops—short on any mention of what really happens by the time someone needs the use of their insurance funds. A glance at the clock told me it had taken nearly three hours to get this far in my search.

  Somewhere during this time, Drake had risen, showered, gobbled down some cereal, and planted a kiss on my head before departing. I barely registered the news when he told me who the client was and where they would be flying; luckily, he’d written it down and stuck the note to the front of my phone.

  By noon I’d found an actual person at Omix Life to talk to and ascertained that, yes, Elsa’s policy was still in effect and would cover the cost of a caregiver at home. My next task was to find one. Long story short, I spent two days talking with candidates on t
he phone, followed by two more days with Ron interviewing the ones who made the first cut. By the end of the week, we were both in love with Dottie Flowers.

  Make that three of us. On a visit to the rehab center, Dottie had wooed Gram with her natural friendliness and caring attitude. The large black woman had enough age to empathize with the elderly, enough physical strength to deal with their needs, a pillowy bosom for comforting. Plus, her credentials as a dietician and physical therapist gave me a lot of confidence. On the first meeting when we introduced her to Gram, the two of them were talking garden-speak within fifteen minutes, discussing what the calendulas—whatever they are—needed to bed them down for the winter. By spring, I could see these two setting tomato plants and laughing over the apple blossoms.

  I drove home after their meeting, noticing all the little signs of the changing season, and realized today was Halloween. I made the effort to stop and pick up a bag of candy, but as it turned out we only had visits from fewer than a dozen little princesses and goblins. At one time, this had been my favorite night of the year when, as a kid, I loved to load up on all the goodies. Now, as our neighborhood has aged, the occasion seems merely a blip on the calendar.

  Gram’s house stood dark still, but that night I slept well for the first time in a week.

  The next morning we got the call. Fergus McNab had passed away quietly in his sleep.

  Chapter 37

  During the same call, Christine said she would fly to Albuquerque this afternoon. I asked about her extended family; they would drive down in a day or two. Neither her husband nor her children had ever met Fergus. The rift between father and daughter had run deep but she would be here to pay her respects and to see Rory. I got the feeling there was not a lot of sisterly love lost on him.